I write poems the way some people keep a notebook by the phone: not to capture everything, but to be ready when something important calls. Most of my poems begin with a moment that refuses to stay quiet: a small human exchange, a remembered voice, an image that lingers longer than it should. I don’t chase ideas so much as I wait for them to return, shaped by time and attention.
My background as a physician has deepened this patience. Medicine teaches you to listen carefully, to notice what’s said and what isn’t, to respect silence as a form of information. Poetry asks for the same discipline. I often begin with an image: a hallway at dawn, a kitchen table, a city block; and let it speak before I try to explain it. Meaning, for me, arrives late. If it arrives too early, I mistrust it.
I revise slowly. I’m less interested in decoration than in clarity. A good line should feel inevitable, as if it could not have been said any other way. When revising, I read aloud and listen for where the poem tightens or loosens its grip. I ask whether each image earns its place, whether the poem is listening as much as it is speaking. I try to cut anything that sounds like I’m trying too hard to be wise.
Two books that have guided my practice over the years are A Poetry Handbook by Mary Oliver and In the Palm of Your Hand: The Poet’s Portable Workshop by Steve Kowit. Oliver’s emphasis on attention, sound, and clarity reinforced my belief that poems begin in careful seeing and honest listening. Kowit’s practical, generous approach to craft: grounded in revision, curiosity, and persistence; reminded me that poems are made through practice, through returning to the page again and again with humility and care.
I’m drawn to poems that balance lyric intensity with narrative restraint. I believe the shape of a poem matters: line breaks, white space, and pacing are not cosmetic choices but part of the poem’s thinking. I try to honor the music of a poem without letting sound overwhelm sense. If a line is long, it’s because it needs the breath. If it’s short, it’s because silence is doing part of the work.
Ultimately, I write to pay attention: to people, to memory, to the fragile exchanges that make up daily life. Poetry, at its best, doesn’t explain the world so much as keep us company inside it. If a poem can offer that companionship, even briefly, I feel it has done its job.
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